


First

by ceywoozle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Job, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are first times for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First

**Author's Note:**

> i know nothing about anatomy and muscles and i am way too lazy to look things up properly, so i apologise profusely for my random picking of random muscle names for the purpose of dramatic intent. alas. i will never change.

The first time they kiss has nothing of the expected drama about it.

It is months since Mary, since that whole mess had left them both reeling, battered and uncertain in each others company.

Weeks only since the last nightmare had disturbed the relative silence of Baker Street. John's, that time. A rapid red-tinted cacophony of fire and of precious things falling, fingers clutching at air. A body landing on hardwood had Sherlock hurrying up the stairs to find John hyperventilating in a ball on the floor. Sherlock had knelt beside him, talking in his ear and giving him his voice and his hand, two true things to latch onto.

They had not kissed then.

It's been days since their last case, running blindly though familiar streets, both of them winded far sooner than they would have been six years ago. A helter-skelter thing that had ended in Sherlock tripping over a stray cat that had gone screeching onto the night, while Sherlock himself had flown cursing into a stagnant puddle that hadn't borne too close an examination.

John had gone to him, fighting for breath, both because of the chase but also because of the laughter—sputtering and weak as he'd knelt carefully at Sherlock's side and pressed instinctive fingers into all the usual places.

“Alright?” he had gasped, as Sherlock lay panting in the litter-strewn filth, cursing whenever heaving lungs let him. Sherlock had snarled, a wordless sound of frustration, and snatched at the fingers kneading carefully at his skull.

“Fine,” he'd snapped, even as he'd held those fingers between his own, not quite letting go, John not quite trying to get them back, a point of languid and unintentional contact hanging halfway between them and going nowhere, till the light of the beat sergeant's torch had extinguished it.

They hadn't kissed then, either.

No. When they kiss, they are walking.

It's November and it's cold, the wind making a persistent and unwelcome threesome in the space between them, despite the fact that they are walking too close. But they have always walked too close.

John is aware of Sherlock. But he is always aware of Sherlock, a flapping black presence, a permanent speck of dust in his peripheral vision, utterly impervious to all attempts to wash him out. So when Sherlock reaches upwards, long deft fingers twitching his high collar up around his cheekbones, John's entire head turns, an involuntary response, and Sherlock is aware of that intense gaze on his neck. But Sherlock is always aware of John's gaze.

And it's been days since they last touched. Weeks since the last nightmare. Months since Mary. Sherlock has lost track of the things they were waiting for. So he stops.

“For God's sake, John,” he snaps, and John, already stopped with him, doesn't quite _not_ flinch when Sherlock narrows that too-close gap between them and takes John's stiff neck between his cold hands and holds him still as he leans in.

This is when they kiss, with the people in suits and the parents with prams parting around them on Marylebone Road, a lone surviving tourist giggling. There is the flash of a camera but neither of them notice for once.

Sherlock's hands are freezing, the palms and fingers wrapping easily around John's neck, rough and stubbled, hours since this morning's shave. Sherlock's thumbs hold him still, firm against John's jaw, tense and uncertain.

They're in public, and Sherlock knows John must hate this for that reason alone, but there is an incredible relief in this, a sense of  _finally,_ of  _at last,_ and he doesn't want to stop. And John's not pushing him away. He's not encouraging Sherlock, but he's not resisting, either, standing stiffly while Sherlock kisses him, gently, a cautious meeting of lips. He kisses John until the cold from the day has been leeched out of them, leaving only his own warmth in its place, transferred by blood and breath and saliva.

When he finally pulls back, his skin sticking slightly to John's, he is interested to find that he is breathing hard, despite how simple the exertion had been. His heart is beating far too fast and he is very warm, despite the thread of wind between them.

John is completely still, his eyes wide open, his expression frozen, and for a moment Sherlock thinks he's actually made a mistake.

But no. The pupils of John's eyes are enormous, too bright, and Sherlock doesn't miss the pink flush that has nothing to do with the wind, the heaving of shoulders that are not quite able to contain the unsteadiness of his breath, the flutter of a pulse at his neck, beating too fast.

Neither of them says anything, staring wide-eyed at each other as the traffic flows around them.

There's a moment Sherlock is worried that he has to say something. John is silent and unmoving and Sherlock doesn't know what happens now, if an explanation is expected, if there's some formula of words that he hasn't yet learnt.

But in the next moment John seems to unfreeze, a shudder running through him and a deep heavy breath sucking in between his pink and parted lips.

“Uh. Angelo's?” he says, and his voice is hoarse and unsteady.

Sherlock frowns. “I thought we'd said Chinese.”

“Right. Course.”

And they keep walking.

Neither of them mention it for another week.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

It is a very long week. A week of near-silence, and Sherlock starts to wonder if he's made a mistake, if he's made John angry.

But no, John is normal as he ever is.

Well.

Maybe there's a bit of change. A little more abstraction, perhaps. Several times Sherlock walks into a room to find John just standing there, frowning into the middle-distance. But it's an odd frown, one of concentration, as if he's inspecting a picture inside his head and attempting to give it meaning.

He takes more walks, too. Longer ones, and Sherlock doesn't know if he should worry, since walks are usually an indication of something Sherlock's done wrong. But John, though silent, doesn't seem unhappy or angry. Sherlock is being very careful to behave, ensuring that all body parts are labelled and in the designated area of the fridge. He doesn't play the violin past eleven, and always makes an extra cup of tea without asking.

It's getting exhausting, honestly. Sherlock wonders how long he is going to have to keep this up, but somehow, every time John is handed a cup of perfectly prepared tea, every time John comes home from a walk to find the kettle already boiled, every time John opens the fridge and lifts a pleased eyebrow to see a neatly marked container in its proper place, Sherlock can see the lines smooth from his face, the hint of the smile around his eyes, and Sherlock thinks,  _okay. Just one more day. I can do this for one more day._

There have been seven days, though, and Sherlock still doesn't know which one of them is supposed to break the silence first.

He consults the internet.

 

_How To Tell If He Likes You!_

_When Kissing Isn't Okay_

_Ten Signs He Hates You_

_Ten Signs He Loves You_

_Are You A Stalker?_

 

The resources seem unlimited and highly, highly suspect. He gives up in disgust, wondering why proper scientific enquiries haven't been brought to bear on this question. It seems an incredibly important thing to have missed.

He shuts the laptop with a snap, frustrated with the internet, with John, with the flat, with the cup of tea at his elbow, when he looks up to find John standing in the divide to the kitchen and staring at him. He is clenching his hands and Sherlock watches as his tongue darts out, wetting nervous lips.

“John?” He hadn't even noticed him there.

John says nothing. Smiles, one of his dangerous smiles, all lethal intent and warning. Cocks his head to the side.

“John?”

He's angry. Why is he angry? Sherlock casts back in his mind, trying to figure out what it is he's done this time, but he looks back on a week of unexceptional behaviour.

John takes several steps towards him, stiff-legged and determined. He is staring at Sherlock, dark eyes unwavering. The smile is gone now but he is frowning heavily, his brows drawn deep over his eyes. His hands are still clenching and Sherlock knows the last time he saw that look: standing over the wine list in a restaurant with Mary looking on.

He feels the same trepidation as the last time, too. Sherlock is actually afraid. He is familiar with that look, but he is not accustomed to having it directed at him. He is searching frantically in his mind, even as he gets to his feet, takes two steps back before he can stop himself, before he makes his shoulders square, his face settle into stubborn lines.

John stops in front of him. Still glaring, hands still clenching. His shoulders are hunched and his head down.

They stand like that for a moment, barely a foot of space between them. Then John's eyes squeeze shut, his fingers all flex at once, and then he is moving forward, closing that space, bringing his head up and his hands up and Sherlock actually flinches when those hands land on the side of his face, holding him still, then pulling him down, and Sherlock suddenly realises that it isn't anger staring him in the face, but grim determination, and when John kisses him Sherlock is ready to kiss him back.

It starts out tentative, John clearly uncertain, a little bit frightened. He isn't sure how to do this, obviously, but then neither is Sherlock. For a moment they just stand there, their lips touching in the middle of the sitting room, some preschool dare that has nothing to do with passion. But because they're so close, Sherlock can feel the moment that John comes to a decision, can feel it in the way he straightens himself, the indrawn breath through dilated nostrils, and then John starts to kiss him. _For real._

It starts with a slow movement of lips, like John is trying to taste him, and Sherlock reciprocates, because as little as he's done this, he knows this much at least. Their lips make subtle pushes against each other, first the top, then the bottom. They are exploring the feel of each other, and Sherlock, a scientist, understands the signs of an experiment in the way John is pushing against him, curious and hopeful and expectant.

After what seems an eternity, after what seems far too short a time, John pulls back and Sherlock opens his eyes, having lost track of when exactly he had closed them.

John's hands are still on his face, but they are tensed now, almost claw-like. He feels the tips of John's fingers pressing into his skull. But the thumbs are moving, stroking almost gently at the hair at his temples. They are both breathing a little heavier than normal, both of them flushed. Sherlock sees the pink on John's cheeks, feels the heat in his own. John is staring at him again, but this time the determination is gone and something small and frightened and unsure has taken its place.

John tries to say something, but his voice cracks and the work breaks before it reaches daylight. He swallows. Tries again. “Okay?”

 _Okay?_ Is he blind?But Sherlock understands it. This need for confirmation. Part of him wants to withhold it, the way John had withheld it for an entire seven days after his own attempt at this, but he sees the worry, staunchly repressed behind John's stoic face, and he nods.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“So this is—this is fine?”

Again, Sherlock nods. Honestly, the man can be an imbecile at times. “Yes, fine. Fine. Absolutely fine. Good. It's good. Very good. So good.”

John nods, a single determined jerk of his head and Sherlock can almost see the relief in the way he squeezes his eyes shut once. He feels it, unequivocally, in the way the claws against his skull flex and relax until they are just hands, just John's hands cupping his face.

“I've never—that is. Not really. Never before with—” he stops. Gives a shrug to finish, not quite meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock frowns, remembering other things. “I thought—Sholto.”

John gives a bark of laughter. “Not that easy in the army. Things went bad for both of us before anything—” stops again. Shrugs again. Something both bitter and longing in his expression before he remembers he's being watched and he glances upwards, uncertainty back in his face as he looks at Sherlock, who is watching with fascination as every micro-expression flicker across John's too-eloquent face. He takes a deep breath. “We don't have to—” John starts to say, but Sherlock already knows how this sentence is going to finish and is already bored by it. _Honestly, John._ So he kisses him to shut him up.

The hesitation is gone, the uncertainty. Sherlock doesn't even give it a chance. He hasn't kissed anyone in a very long time, not since Janine. He hasn't wanted to kiss anyone in even longer, and that had been experiments, mostly, with one notable exception in university that Sherlock is suddenly grateful for because it gives him something to work off of now. Below him, pressed down by the force of his lips, John is kissing back but there's nothing cerebral in it. He's a bit lost, responding on instinct, because he doesn't have anything to draw on for this, has no way to compare. He is making noises, small curious noises that make Sherlock open his eyes in order to see his face as he is being kissed. He almost wishes he didn't. John's eyes are closed and his expression is one of fierce concentration and fierce need, and Sherlock brings his hands up to feel the way those muscles jump in his hands. He slides them over stiffened neck, over hunched shoulders, down over a tightly wound back.

John is breathing hard now, though the kiss isn't that intense, and the sounds he is making are becoming deeper. His eyebrows are drawn and Sherlock can feel the strength of that control. He can feel shaking muscles under his hand and he wonders how long it's been since John has let them loose, let their springs uncoil and and fall apart. John is kissing him fiercely now, all shaking lips and hard tongue. He is shivering in spite of the heat that Sherlock feels coming off of him.

It's Sherlock who pulls back this time and John lets him go with an involuntary grunt. Sherlock still holds him though, keeps his hands on flinching hips and doesn't say anything when John presses his forehead into his chest, panting loudly between clenched teeth.

“John?”

“Jesus Christ,” John heaves. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

So Sherlock holds him, not sure what else to do. John is pressed full-length against him and despite the shaking, the harsh drag of breath, Sherlock can feel the evidence of something else against his thigh. Sherlock shifts, because he knows his own body is just as much a traitor as John's.

It takes a long time for John to calm down, for the shaking to stop, for his breath to normalise. By then they've both lost something of their edge and it's reluctantly that Sherlock lets his hands fall when John steps back. He is exhausted looking, his eyes wide and wild and cautious.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Okay. Just.” He shuts his eyes tightly, his hands clench at his sides. If this wasn't John, Sherlock might think he was about to cry. The seams are coming apart, loosened by whatever it was that their kiss had done to him, and John is desperately trying to keep them together, desperately wanting to let them fall apart. Sherlock has never seen this side of John before. Not even when he'd stood at Sherlock's empty grave. Not even when he'd come back. Sherlock has never seen a John that has wanted so badly to fall to pieces without any idea of how.

“John?”

Dark blue eyes snap open, clenched fingers straighten and flex.

“Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, just. I need a walk.”

 _You just came back from one,_ Sherlock wants to say, but he closes his lips on the words, just nods silently, watches John turn with military precision and march out the door.

He rushes to the window the moment the downstairs door clicks shut and watches that ramrod straight back disappearing down the block. He considers following. He considers calling Mycroft. But he doesn't do either of those things. Frowns, remembers the article: _Are You A Stalker?_

With a huff of impatience he settles down to wait.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

John doesn't come home.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

It is four in the morning when Sherlock finally levers himself off the couch, his body unfolding itself with a reluctant stiffness that Sherlock's begun to notice in the last year. He stands there, in the middle of the sitting room, listening.

Did he simply not notice John coming home? Had he slipped into unconscious sleep at some point, missing the faint tread and wooden creak of that second presence in the flat.

But no. The flat feels empty, which is ridiculous, of course. Those so-called _feelings_ are nothing more than the mind reacting to subtle clues. The smell of fresh air from an open door, the buzz of a television on mute, the click of a latch only half-heard. Nonetheless....the flat _feels_ empty. John isn't here. Sherlock had a great deal of time to know what that felt like, though not as long as John had to feel the same.

There. That stab of remorse and regret, for both those times. Familiar and unfailing. They rise to haunt Sherlock still, in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that he knows the emotions are useless, that those times are finished and over with and that there's nothing he can do for either himself or John to eradicate them. They've both paid their dues. They both know it's time to move past. And it's been weeks since the last nightmare, weeks since they've had that reminder sitting between, unspoken but understood.

He gives a huff of annoyance. He is tired of feeling guilty. He is tired of causing guilt. He tries to remember one more time what it was that they were waiting for. He thinks of John's week of silence. Of his grim determination this afternoon. He thinks of the harsh breath of a panic attack waiting to happen as control slowly slipped away and the thought that after all this time, after everything that they'd done and not done to each other, it was a simple kiss that had finally succeeded in raising tears to those stubborn eyes.

Sherlock is frowning again as he walks slowly up the stairs to the second floor. John's bedroom door, closed as always. Sherlock opens it without compunction, has done this too many times to count to feel any guilt over this intrusion. He's inserted himself into this space over the years, turned his own presence into part of it so that it no longer feels unfamiliar or strange, no longer part of a case, something to be inspected and deduced. He knows he will find the bed tucked straight with military lines, the clothes folded with precision into their drawers, the small carpet square alongside the bed.

He leaves the door open behind him and goes to the bed, looks down on it for a moment before slowly folding himself down on it.

The corners of the tucked blankets come loose, the smooth surface disturbed and lined. No longer perfect, it's edges coming apart.

He pushes his nose into the pillow, right in the centre. Is surprised to find that the scent of sandalwood is stronger on the left side, and he immediately revises his image of a sleeping John, erases the one he has, of John laid out corpse-like in the centre of his bed, arms folded with lines as neat as those of his sheets. He pictures instead a John sprawled lavishly out, one arm tucked beside his head, the other thrown haphazardly to the side. He imagines his hips half cocked off the mattress, one leg half bent underneath him, the other straight out.

He turns over, dislodging one corner of the tightly fitted sheet, sprawls himself as he imagines John to sprawl himself, his head on the left side of the pillow. Places his limbs as he imagines John's limbs to be placed. He shuffles around on the bed, the corners coming up around him.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he's tired and everything smells like John and the floor at the top of the house is warm with the heat from the lower levels seeping upwards. He dozes, half aware, hearing the sound of footsteps on the edge of consciousness, his mind not telling him what they mean until it's too late and he opens his eyes suddenly up to find John standing above him.

He sits up, blushing, flustered. He's stammering something, he hardly knows what. He pushes himself off the bed, ignoring the stiffness from the unusual position. Is pushing past but the hand on his wrist stops him, John's fingers barely meeting around its circumference.

“Sh—” The start of his name, cut off with a swallow. He freezes, waiting, his face turned away.

“Sherlock,” John tries again, and Sherlock turns his head to look at him.

John is flushed, his jaw tense and his lips pressed thin, but his eyes are right on Sherlock's, meeting them with determination. He nods, once, a single jerk of his head.

“Just. Don't go,” John blurts, the words almost unintentional and he seems surprised for a moment at his own daring, taking in a shallow breath before snapping his lips closed around it. His nostrils are dilating with his breathing, just a little too heavy, a palpable fight for control, and Sherlock nods quickly, seeing it. Not wanting to give him time to change his mind, he doesn't even wait for John, slides back onto the bed and stares up at him, waiting.

For a moment Sherlock thinks John is going to flee, turn around and walk away. He's almost expecting it. John is fighting himself, in the deliberate set of his face, in the way his muscles have started to lose control, the shivering coming back. It's when his teeth start to chatter that Sherlock finally reaches up and takes his hand and after a brief heartbeat of resistance, John let's himself go.

He falls on his knees, the mattress giving way beneath him, and at Sherlock's insistence, he clambers awkwardly down until he is horizontal on the bed, side by side with Sherlock. John is on his back, his face pointed at the ceiling, his right hand stiff at his side, his left one in Sherlock's. He is shaking and Sherlock can feel the bed vibrating underneath him from the force of it. John looks like he's about to fly apart and Sherlock feels an intense need to contain him, keep those pieces together in one John-shaped whole.

There are ten inches separating them on the bed and Sherlock closes them, slides over and slides himself over John, his arm and his leg wrapping around him and dragging him close, keeping him together. John doesn't flinch, just lays there and shakes, but there is gratitude in his eyes when he looks at Sherlock, and self-disgust.

“Jesus. Sorry,” he chatters.

“Shut up,” says Sherlock. He tucks his chin on top of John's head and for that time, John is completely encased in him.

It takes ten minutes for John to stop shaking, for his breathing to fall back to normal. Sherlock can feel them, one by one, each muscle slowly start to relax. He counts them off in his head. The intercostales and the subcostales, the diaphragm and the transversus abdominis, the coccygeus and the gluteus maximus. He makes lists in his head and knows that soon he will have the corresponding pictures in his head for each item, a John-shaped dummy in his Mind Palace with labels adhering to every surface, every muscle and ligament and bone and artery and organ made safe in his inventory. He thinks about xrays, ultrasounds, of peering into those places that no one else has seen before. He is already planning the hijacking at St Bart's, his mind wrapped up in floor plans and cameras and security details so that he doesn't entirely notice that John has stilled and is turned towards him now, his face pressing into the warm place beneath his chin. He comes back to himself when John's lips press a warm trail against his throat.

He sighs, because it is good, because he's never felt that before, not quite like that. He lets John do it for several moments, his lips becoming firmer, his kisses becoming bolder. Soon John is flexing in his arms, trying to reach new places and Sherlock lets him, loosens his grip and pulls away so that John's access suddenly opens up and those lips climb upwards, past his throat, over his chin, along his jaw, eventually finding Sherlock's mouth. And Sherlock smiles because he knew he'd get there eventually.

“What?” John murmurs against his mouth.

“Knew you would find it if I just left you alone to work it out.”

“Shut up, you wanker,” John huffs, and kisses him again, narrow lips surprisingly soft and supple as Sherlock pushes up into them, quickening their touches, their mouths opening further and further until Sherlock's tongue slips against John's and it feels incredibly right that it should have happened. So he lets it do it again, harder, his tongue pushing into John's mouth to feel inside of it and John makes a deep sound inside his chest, approval and want and Sherlock feels it vibrate against him.

Sherlock's arms are around John, his left leg still slung over him. John is writhing in this Gordian knot, shaking again, but it's a different kind of shaking. Overeager, all uncontainable energy. He is straddling Sherlock's thigh and Sherlock can feel his erection pressing against it, a hard, long heat through layers of material. John's hips are shuddering, pushing against that muscle, finding that friction and unable to stop himself from thrusting against it. He is panting now, whining into Sherlock's mouth as he thrusts frantically against his leg and Sherlock stares at him for a moment, unable to quite believe what he's seeing. John's eyes are wide and frenzied, his movements helpless, and there is something so incredible in seeing John unrestrained like this that Sherlock doesn't stop him right away.

He does, finally, because there's a terror there, too, so Sherlock goes back to holding him, hands running down his back stroking him to calmness like an overexcited puppy until John is whimpering and still and muttering half-broken apologies into his chest.

“John,” he says again. “Shut up.”

A sob turns into a laugh half way through and John looks up, face red with humiliation. “Wanker,” he says.

Sherlock hums and pulls him up, kissing him on a heated cheek. “Not anymore.”

John splutters a laugh and collapses, giggling into Sherlock's neck, until Sherlock's stroking hands start to become insistent and then they are kissing again and this time the noises are coming from both of them as John's tongue pushes past Sherlock's lips and starts to explore.

John is on top of him, but it doesn't take much for Sherlock to push him over. John goes, willingly, but Sherlock doesn't miss the look of surprise on his face, the flash of uncertainty before Sherlock's on top of him, knees straddling on either side of his hips, elbows planted beside his head and keeping him contained, keeping him still while Sherlock takes what he wants from him, his kisses, his breath, the groans he extracts with every thrust of his tongue.

When he lowers his hips to settle on top of John's, they are both aware of the hard line of each others cocks, and John's hips jump involuntarily upwards, his fingers scrabbling at the waist of Sherlock's sleep trousers and pulling him down.

“Impatient,” Sherlock chides against John's mouth and he feels the toothy grin that rises in response.

“Shut up and do something,” John pants, and thrusts upwards with a grunt.

Sherlock's chuckle dissolves in a gasp and for a moment he's just as lost as John and they are thrusting against each other, their cocks trying to find one another through too many layers till John is half-laughing in frantic, frenzied need.

“Fucking clothes,” he groans, and Sherlock agrees, stilling long enough for John's seeking fingers to drag at Sherlock's trousers and pants, and when he can't reach anymore, Sherlock leans his weight on one arm and reaches between them with the other to finish the job, pushing them only far enough for them not to get in the way.

He doesn't waste time undressing them. Not now. There are far more important things. Such as the minute movements of John's involuntarily thrusting hips, the slightest sound of a high-pitched whimper that's dragged from him at every exhale.

He finishes the job that John started until John can feel the velvet stroke of exposed skin against his stomach and he cranes his neck to peer between them, watches his own hand as it slides around and circles the long, hard line of Sherlock's cock. It is already wet at the end, and John touches it with his thumb while Sherlock watches his face, watches the awe on it, the stark want. It is unreal how good this feels, John's tentative touches.

Sherlock is making noises now, embarrassing noises, but he can't seem to stop. It's patently unfair that John gets to do this to him while reciprocation remains an impossibility, so he struggles one-handedly with the button on John's jeans before giving a snarl and simply ripping it off. John doesn't protest, but he gives a moan of frantic need. The hand leaves Sherlock's cock in order to clutch at his hips, pulling him down.

“John,” Sherlock gasps between kisses. He is nearly desperate himself. His cock is naked between them, pressed against denim and his own soft belly. “I can't concentrate like this,” he snaps, because he wants more, because this isn't fair.

“You're taking too bloody long,” John snarls back.

“Then bloody do it yourself.”

John gives a huff, but slips his hands between them and pulls the zipper down. As soon as it's undone, Sherlock is right there with him and together they manage to push the stiff material aside, dragging cotton pants with them, and the moment John is exposed they both seem to freeze, staring in the narrow space between them, both their cocks between them, bobbing oddly, crossed against their stomachs.

“Christ,” John says.

“Anatomy is fascinating,” Sherlock agrees.

John snorts and kisses him again and Sherlock goes to him willingly.

There is no restraint left, nothing between them, nothing that matters. They thrust and it is skin against skin, the soft heat of the head, the hard veined length down to the coarse brush of hair and the testicles, tight and tense at the base. There is no finesse left. They are pushing into each other and Sherlock is only aware of the man beneath him. He can't close his eyes because he knows he will never see this again, this first time, John coming apart beneath him, willingly give himself up, wanting to give himself up. It is something he needs to remember, something to preserve and put away and never, ever lose. There is nothing of John he wants to lose, but of all the things that are most important, this seems even more important yet, so Sherlock stares, wide-eyed as he feels the pressure beginning to build, as he feels his testicles drawing up and tighten until suddenly his entire body convulses and stiffens and he is coming, a silent shout on his lips, his eyes never leaving John's face.

And John. He is beautiful in that moment. He is always beautiful, but right then, aching and silent with pure wonder on his face as Sherlock falls apart above him, he is the brightest thing that Sherlock's ever seen. When Sherlock comes down again, collapsing forward into the mess he's made, feeling it sticky and warm against his stomach, John's arms are already around him, palms on his spine, fingers in his hair, lips brushing against his ear.

He wants to stay like this forever. A silly reaction. He knows he would get bored very quickly should he ever in fact be forced to do anything so unproductive, but in that moment he can't think of another place he wants to be. He is languid, his muscles loose and exhausted. He wants to bury himself in John and sleep.

Instead, he pulls back, lips pressing against John's neck, his throat, teeth nip languidly and John gasps and then growls. His hips, still as they were through Sherlock's coming down, give a sudden upward thrust, and Sherlock slides down his body, leaving a slow grin in his wake. John's eyes widen and his mouth is open, his breath panting between parted lips.

“Sh—Sherlock—” he says, but Sherlock's already there and doesn't answer, his fingers circling the base of John's hard cock, his lips already slipping over its crown, past the velvet softness and the acrid taste of precum, the salty bitterness of his own come smeared on its length, over the textured silk of veins as far as he can go, which isn't quite far enough. He will need to practice this, he thinks. He will need to do better next time.

But for now, John is gasping above him, and Sherlock isn't entirely sure he's not hyperventilating again. He lets his lips slide over John four times. Only those four, because it doesn't take long for John to start moaning, pushing upwards, the shudder of his hips uncontrolled. Sherlock feels his fingers in his hair, clenching in a familiar rhythm. This is something else he needs to see, though. Next time. Or perhaps the next. Once he's practised. He will have John come down his throat and he will have a camera set up so he doesn't miss a thing.

But for now, he pulls himself off and John follows him with a whine. His eyes are screwed shut and Sherlock slides up to him before returning his right hand around the base of his cock. He gives it a stroke and John shudders once and Sherlock knows John's close, so close.

“John.”

John swears, a soft panting sound, half-formed. He pushes his head back into the pillow, eyes squeezing tighter as he tries to force his cock through the ring of Sherlock's hand and Sherlock doesn't let him.

“John,” he says again, more insistently, the voice he uses for cases, for chases, to warn him of dangerous things. “Look at me,” he commands, and John's eyes snap open.

Sherlock smiles, satisfied. “Good boy,” he says, and thrusts his fist over John's cock.

John gives a single strangled cry and comes, eyes wide and fixed on Sherlock's. His mouth is open and round, a perfect _O,_ and Sherlock thinks of how perfectly he would fit in there.

Some other time.

John is shaking again, the sounds he is making as uncontrolled as the rest of him. Every muscle has been untangled and there is wonder and terror in John's eyes, and relief. Such relief. Sherlock smiles to see it.

As soon as the wet heat of John's come has ceased, as soon as Sherlock feels John's cock begin to soften in his hand, Sherlock lets him go. He pulls off his own tshirt one-handed, its wide neck giving little fight, and wipes John clean with it. He tosses it over the side of the bed even as John gives a groan, leaning into him as Sherlock slides down next to him, wrapping himself around him once more.

“You know who's going to have to pick that up tomorrow,” John sighs into Sherlock's throat.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock says, and pulls him closer.

 


End file.
